long in one place; he followed disease instead of flying from it, and I had my doubts whether, from constant attendance upon the dying, I might not die myself, and I resolved to quit him the first favourable opportunity.  I had already learnt many wonderful things from him; that blood was necessary to life, and that without breath a man would die, and that white powders cured fevers, and black drops stopped the dysentery.  At last we arrived in this town, and the other day, as I was pounding the drug of reflection in the mortar of patience, the physician desired me to bring his lancets, and to follow him.  I paced through the streets behind the learned Hakim, until we arrived at a mean house, in an obscure quarter of this grand city over which your highness reigns in justice.  An old woman full of lamentation, led us to the sick couch, where lay a creature, beautiful in shape as a houri.  The Frank physician was desired by the old woman to feel her pulse through the curtain, but he laughed at her beard (for she had no small one), and drew aside the curtains and took hold of a hand so small and so delicate, that it were only fit to feed the Prophet himself near the throne of the angel Gabriel, with the immortal pilau prepared for true believers.  Her face was covered, and the Frank desired the veil to be removed.  The old woman refused, and he turned on his heel to leave her to the assaults of death.  The old woman’s love for her child conquered her religious scruples, and she consented that her daughter should unveil to an unbeliever.  I was in ecstasy at her charms, and could have asked her for a wife; but the Frank only asked to see her tongue.  Having looked at it, he turned away with as much indifference as if it had been a dying dog.  He desired me to bind up her arm, and took away a basin full of her golden blood, and then put a white powder into the hands of the old woman, saying that he would see her again.  I held out my hand for the gold, but there was none forthcoming.

“We are poor,” cried the old woman, to the Hakim, “but God is great.”

“I do not want your money, good woman,” replied he; “I will cure your daughter.”  Then he went to the bedside and spoke comfort to the sick girl, telling her to be of good courage, and all would be well.

The girl answered in a voice sweeter than a nightingale’s, that she had but thanks to offer in return, and prayers to the Most High.  “Yes,” said the old woman, raising her voice, “a scoundrel of a howling dervish robbed me at Scutari of all I had for my subsistence, and of my daughter’s portion, seven hundred sequins, in a goat-skin bag!”—­and then she began to curse.  May the dogs of the city howl at her ugliness!  How she did curse!  She cursed my father and mother—­she cursed their graves—­flung dirt upon my brother and sisters, and filth upon the whole generation.  She gave me up to Jehanum, and to every species of defilement.  It was a dreadful thing to hear that